Proof of Life
by dancinbutterfly
Summary: Entourage EricxVince. Kidnapping is an industry in Colombia. AU twist on 4.01 Welcome to the Jungle. Updated 2/16/08
1. Proof of Life

**Authors Notes:** This story diverges from canon during 4x01 Welcome to the Jungle. I got inspired to write this at a Colombian rally in Rome over the summer and it's just taken me this long to write it.

**Pairing: **Eric/Vince

**Betas and helpers:** fourteencandles, guestage, Ashley, and Anne

**Summary: **Kidnapping is an industry in Colombia

- - - - -

Eric tells Vince he's going into Bogotá to get to a reliable land line and to try and work out the budgeting issues that have come with losing their DP. Then he climbs into one of the Jeeps with a guy named Diego and leaves the little jungle village they've been living in for the past four months.

Vince doesn't completely buy that. Not that E's the type to lie, but it's obvious he needs time to get his shit together away from the set. With Sven quitting and Billy being all moonstruck and the movie still not having an ending, who could blame the guy for trying to get away for a few hours?

Only... a few hours stretch into a day, and E isn't answering his cell. Vince starts to worry. Not openly. But for twenty-four hours there's this feeling in the pit of his stomach that says _something is wrong_. He does his best not to listen to it.

Late the next night, the situation changes. It's after midnight, and Billy's wrapped production for the day, but the sound of a new car gets everyone out of the bar or their trailers to see Diego – who has arrived in a completely different vehicle than one he left in with a face full of bruises, a broken hand, a t-shirt that's got splotches of blood on it and no Eric.

"Where's E?" Vince asks, first thing, even before the man half-steps, half-falls out of the Jeep.

Diego babbles in rapid Spanish that Vince can't really understand, so he grabs the guy by the shoulders and gives him a rough shake. Then Diego sort of sags and makes choking noises that could be sobs, and that feeling in Vince's stomach worsens.

It's another hour before Diego is calm enough to talk to them in English. And then Vince actually does throw up.

Not at first, because first he has to sit there with Turtle and Johnny and Billy and the rest of the cast and listen to Diego talk about the fact that even though they have a pretty decent chunk of the Colombian Army available for filming, the guys can't do dick about the fact that the jungles are run by factions of rebel guerillas who work for the cartels.

All of this would have been good information to have had before something like this happened.

Except, Vince realizes, as he listens shell-shocked to Diego talk in halting English, E probably did know about it. He probably knew from the beginning, and that was why he and Ari made such a big deal about Vince getting that extra insurance before they left the States.

The gist, as far as Vince can tell, is that the wreck happened ten miles outside of Bogotá. Diego swerved to avoid hitting a guy with an AK-47 and ran into a ditch. Suddenly instead of one guy with a Kalashnikov, there were half a dozen of them. They were guys who probably had ties to the revolutionaries and who saw an easy target in the American with the dress shirt and the expensive watch and his wallet full of plastic and pesos. Diego says that Eric tried to fight the first guy who grabbed for him because, Vince thinks, that's who he is. He's the type to fight back. Though, according to Diego, it got him nothing but a smash to the face with the butt of one of the guns that left him unconscious. And then the men took what little money Diego had on his person, and took E, and left.

Diego had to walk the ten miles into the capital, where he spent all day talking with the policía and trying to get in touch with his brother-in-law to borrow his truck to come back.

"Did the pigs say anything?" Billy asks, because by the time it occurs to anyone to ask questions, Vince is pretty much useless. "Any instructions or shit like that?"

The only instruction they gave Diego was to wait, as the involvement of a foreign national – particularly an American citizen – complicated things for the local law enforcement. The kidnappers had Eric's cell phone, so Vince could expect a ransom call. The Bogotá police were getting in touch with the Colombian liaison to the FBI and wanted him to call if the suspects called with demands before U.S. agents were able to get out there.

Vince manages to wait until that point to push away from the group that has gathered in the town cantina. He makes it all of ten feet outside the bar before he sinks to his knees and heaves onto the dirt. His arms are shaking and his mouth tastes like acid that isn't all from the vomit: some of it's from the fear. And he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand on his back.

"You all right, Vin?" Turtle sounds more serious than Vince has ever heard him.

He doesn't answer, just lets his head hang back down, because he's having really hard time dealing with the fact that, right now, E could be dead. Not movie dead where the squids explode and you have to wash off a nasty mixture of corn syrup and red food coloring, but very real, rigor mortis, never-get-to-talk-to-you-ever-again dead. He heaves again and there's a new set of hands on his other side.

He's pretty sure that's Johnny. It's gotta be. No one else would wear that much cologne in the middle of the rainforest.

"He's gonna be fine, bro," Johnny says, low and trying desperately for convincing. 

Vince sags sideways against his brother's shoulder and is grateful for the support. So grateful, in fact, he doesn't point out that this is some of the shittiest acting that Johnny has ever done.

The thing is, if something like this had happened any other way, Vince would have deferred to E and gone on with the job. Then E would have called the right people and they would have come in and just like that the problem would have been gone.

But that's the fucking problem. There is no E, there's just Vince. So he calls the only person he can think of, trying to get something – anything – accomplished. He's been on the phone with Ari for over an hour now, trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do.

"What do you do? You don't fucking do anything. You go back to work and wait for the FBI to get there, and then you smile and do whatever the fuck they tell you to."

"E could be dead, Ari," Vince spits, and it's scary as fuck how easy that's become to say in the last, excruciatingly long 24 hours -- which every cop show he has ever seen, from "Law and Order" to that cheesy one with the math nerd, has told him is the most important time in a kidnapping.

"I'm well aware of that fact. And as irritating as the little leprechaun is, I can honestly say I hope he isn't. If only because it'll get Lloyd to stop fucking crying." There's a loud bang as if Ari has thrown something at one of the windows in his office.

"Ari," Vince says, trying very hard to keep it from coming out as a plea. "That doesn't help me. It's your fucking job to fucking _help me_."

"I'm a talent agent, for Christ's sake, Vince, not Jack Bauer. What do you want me to, hijack a plane, fly to Colombia and dig your little munchkin friend of out of the jungle? I would, but my wife would saw my dick off with an old piano wire, and I don't like E that much."

Vince deflates, sinking down to sit on his ass in the yellow dust. He leans back against one of the oh-so-authentic adobe buildings. "Why isn't anyone official here yet? It's been two days since they took him."

Ari sighs. It's the first time he's sounded suitably serious. "I don't know. I called the L.A. division the second after I got off the phone with Walsh, but I don't control the inner workings of the fucking federal government. If I did, I'd pay a lot less on my taxes." 

A muscle twitches in Vince's jaw. He really doesn't want to break. He never has before. Ever. Not even when his dad had still lived at home and made a habit of beating on him and his siblings. But he'd had Eric to help him hold shit together back then.

"I need him to be okay," he says, so softly he's almost not sure he spoke.

There's a long silence that makes him question even more, then Ari speaks. "I'm so many types of uncomfortable with this," he replies dryly. "If you want to do the weepy shit, I'm going to put you on the line with Lloyd."

Vince laughs for the first time since before Diego stumbled out of his brother-in-law's truck. It tears from his chest, choked and ragged for a moment before he buries his face in his tucked up knees as the laughter shifts into tears because there's something inherently wrong and painful about laughing when E's…when he could be…. He flips his cell shut as quickly as he can because he really, really doesn't need to have Ari hear him crying.

When he can finally breathe without hiccupping, he looks up to find Billy standing over him. He looks sheepish and really uncomfortable but determined.

Vince takes a deep breath and doesn't rub his face because goddamn it, if he doesn't acknowledge the tears on his face then they're not really there. That's basic, Survival 101. Fake being okay until you _are_ okay. So he gives Billy his million-dollar smile.

"What's up, Billy?" he asks with false cheer.

"The pigs are finally here," he says, with a hint of distain in his tone. "They want to talk to you."

Vince nods and climbs to his feet, then follows Billy back to the trailers. Johnny and Turtle are tripping over themselves around two real, live FBI agents, and Vince just wants them to fix it.

Agent Fuentes and Agent Mason are everything the movies have led Vince to believe FBI agents would be, only worse dressers. Fuentes is a beautiful Latina woman with a thick accent and a guarded expression. Mason is a built, middle-aged black guy. They tell him shit he already knows from movies about timetables and then they give him new information. They give him survival statistics, most of which are bad. They tell him how very much the U.S. is not kidding about negotiating with terrorists, under any circumstances. They tell him that paying a ransom doesn't always mean getting your loved one back.

That's what Fuentes calls E, his loved one. No one corrects her.

They spend a long time talking about the FARC rebels, a group of supposed freedom fighters, and their drug ties. They give him a goddamn history lesson, and Vince honestly could care less. The things he needs to know are bullet points: kidnapping is a form of income that keeps their faction in business; it's about profit not people; they have lots of guns and enough power to keep the Colombian military from wanting to stir shit up. They're the guys who like to kill DEA agents.

Vince feels shaky and he sits down on one of the smallish couches between Turtle and Johnny, who are currently sitting on their stashes, and he just wants a drink. Or to throw up again. Or, even better, to wake up from the fucking nightmare he's stuck in where E isn't there to translate the chaos into something he can understand.

"If he is still alive, chances are you're going to get a phone call in the next twenty-four hours," Mason says. "Until then, the best thing you can do is try to get back to normal as much as you can."

Vince doesn't laugh at how ridiculous the concept of normalcy feels right now. He wants to, but the last time he laughed he lost it and he's not going to lose it again in front of the guys. He won't. He can't.

So they wait. For about six excruciatingly long hours, the entirety of the cast and crew seems to hold their breath. Vince keeps his phone charged and says more prayers than he ever has in his entire life.

And then his phone starts vibrating and the letter E pops up on the caller ID.

Fuentes makes him wait two rings, fiddling with some kind of electronic equipment, before she lets him pick up the phone.

"E?"

"Señor Chase?" It's a man with a thick accent, not Eric.

"Yes?" His voice shakes.

"You have something we want."

He takes a deep breath. This is just scene. It's just a part. He's playing the role of cool guy talking to the kidnapper. There's even a camera, in the hands of one of the British documentarians, and that helps. This isn't real. He has to believe, for this moment, that it isn't real.

"What's that?" he asks, in character. 

It's a scene. He's acting. He's in this other world, playing the part. He's a guy who isn't terrified. He has to make that reality.

"Five million dollars American, in unmarked pesos. In exchange, you get to find out if your friend is alive or not."

"How long?"

"Take as long as you need," the voice replies in a friendly tone. "If he's dead, he'll still be dead when you get us the money. And if not…" the son of a bitch on the other end of the line lets the statement hang, and Vince has never wanted to kill someone so much before. "Perhaps you should hurry."

Fuentes looks at him. She nods. He's supposed to keep the asshole talking. He can barely think and he's supposed to keep talking? He flounders.

"How do I get in contact with you when I have the money?"

"We will contact you again, Señor Chase. Adios." There's a click, and Vince feels like he's been hit with a sledgehammer when he comes out of character into a real world where he has to pay to find out of his best friend is alive or dead.

He passes the phone off to someone, he doesn't know who, and cuts out of the trailer. He is so fucking sick of this godforsaken country and this goddamn jungle. But most of all, he's sick of not being able to talk to Eric about all this.

So a few hours later, when the guy who's leading the documentary team politely asks him if he wants to talk, he says sure. It's not something he'd normally do, but he left normal behind days ago. Honestly, Vince doesn't know if he'll ever have normal again.

_"Can you tell us what's happened?"_

Chase runs a hand through his hair and rubs at his eyes.

"They're asking for five million."

"For the return of Eric Murphy?"

Chase's eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks tiredly into the camera. He shakes his head and gives a desperately sad smile.

"For proof of life."

His hand is rubbing at his chest now, over his sternum through the fabric of his worn t-shirt. He looks lost, overwhelmed.

"Look, I know you guys are making your big movie, but I need this to not go out to anyone until-" He stops, squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Until we get E back. Okay? I don't give a shit what you do with this afterwards."

"Of course." There's silence as he stares blankly at something behind or beyond the camera. "Are you going to pay the kidnappers?"

"Yeah," he says softly. There're tears welling in his eyes but they don't fall. "Just…fuck, I don't know how. Every fucking dollar we have, me and E, is sunk into this fucking film. I mean, Jesus, I don't have ten bucks to give them, let alone five million."

He stops again, presses his palms against his eyes. His breathing is loud and when he speaks, it's at a higher than usual volume. "The Feds don't have shit and I've called Ari. I keep calling Ari about finding the money but-" He stops and pulls his hands away from his eyes. There's a little moisture on his lashes and it almost glitters in the afternoon light.

He swallows. He licks his lips. He takes another deep breath. "I just have no fucking idea how we're going to do this. There's no E without money. There's no money without the movie. There's no movie without E." He gives a strained laugh and stares into the camera with dark eyes. "That's the worst thing, you know? E would know how to fix this. He'd know."

It's Turtle's idea, and it's goddamn brilliant, if he does say so himself. It's been a week since the day Eric left for Bogotá and production has ground to a halt it can ill afford because they've lost a producer and the star is in no shape to work. The three of them are in Vince's trailer, beers firmly in hand, trying to keep Vince from going into a full-on tailspin.

Turtle's not stupid, and it doesn't take a genius to see what the whole thing is doing to Vince. He's a freakin' zombie, wandering around all silent and dead-eyed, the walking wounded trying to pass for okay. 

Not that Turtle's okay. He isn't. Far from it. He's scared shitless that they're going to shell out five million dollars only to get E's head in a box like in _Se7en_.

But he's been friends with Vince and E from almost the beginning, and he's got eyes. Since junior high it was the three of them, Vince and Eric and him. But before that, and at the center, it's always been Vince and Eric, like together they're one whole person or something.

Not that Vince is gay or nothing but there's something there. And it's big. Big enough that he actually takes the chance and makes his pretty damn brilliant suggestion.

"I think we should call Sloan," he says finally, after the third beer, because he honestly has no idea how that idea's going to go over. "She's got money, and it's E. I think she'd help."

There's a really long silence during which time Drama watches Vince and Vince stares down Turtle until he finally can't take it and looks away. He really can't handle Vince's eyes when they're all sad like that.

"Vin?"

"I'll call her," he says softly. He's kind of empty since E got taken. It's like a ghost of the Vince he's used to. "I don't have her number on me. I didn't need it. I…I'm going to call Ari. He can probably get Lloyd to find it."

"I can do it for you, bro, if you want." Johnny offers. Which is a fucking decent thing for Drama to do, Turtle thinks. Drama's kicked into mother hen overdrive since the shit's hit the fan, and a lot of the time Turtle just wants to smack him and tell him to leave Vince the fuck alone. A lot of the time he does. Not this time.

Vince shakes his head and spins his beer bottle around so that the label is facing him. He starts to pick at it, staring blankly.

Turtle thinks that a part of Vince doesn't really want to know. He thinks it's got nothing the fuck to do with the money and everything to do with the fact that as long as they don't have a definitive answer, there's a chance that E's still alive. And once they pay, there's a real chance that they're going to find out once and for all that he's dead. The same basic concept kept Turtle from taking the SATs back in high school.

"It's late," Vince says. "I'll call tomorrow."

"Good," Turtle replies. "I'm sure he's fine, Vince. It can wait a few hours."

Vince nods. "Yeah. I'm going to bed."

"I'll walk with you," Drama offers, but Turtle grabs him by the arm and yanks, glaring. He doesn't need to, though. Vince just shakes his head.

"I'm fine. I'm just tired. See you tomorrow, guys."

He leaves, the trailer door flapping shut behind him, and Turtle lets go of Drama's arm.

"What the hell was that?" Drama demands. "I was just trying to help."

"You gotta to ease up, man. Jesus, you're worse than your mother."

Which brings the conversation to a screeching fucking halt. Because Mrs. Murphy has no idea. No. Fucking. Idea. If she did, she'd be on the first flight to Bogotá, no questions asked. And then she'd be here. And fuck, she would probably cry. Even if they found out that Eric was still in one piece.

He's already tired of that line of thinking jangling around all by itself in his head. So he puts it out there, in the wide fucking open.

"Drama?"

"What?"

"What are we gonna do if he's dead?"

He's never broached the question before. It's like there's some unspoken commandment among the group – thou shall not allow thyself to think that E is fucking dead.

Drama shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and takes a sip of his beer. "He's not dead."

"But what if he is?"

"He's not."

"Drama…" Turtle sighs. "What if he is?"

Drama's face falls like a freaking mudslide. It's not a comforting expression. "If he is, which he's not, then we watch Vince," he says finally. "I don't know what else we do, but we do that."

"Yeah," Turtle says numbly.

He knows Drama is right; he's Vince's big brother, and he's fucked up a lot but the one thing he's never fucked up on is in his sincere attempts to protect Vince when he needs it. And he just wanted to be sure that Drama sees what he does. 

"But he's not dead," Drama says again with every confidence. "So it's a moot point anyway."

Turtle chuckles and nods. Drama can't act. He's god-awful at it. But he's really good at making himself believe his own press. 

The phone rings at nine in the morning, waking Vince from a fitful and hard won sleep. He gropes desperately for the phone, in the constant hope that this time it's that nameless Colombian man with information on the other end.

But it's not. It's Sloan McQuewick. She's in tears on the other line.

"Have you heard anything?" she asks on a hiccupping sob. "Vince, have you heard anything about Eric?"

"Sloan?"

"Vince, is he okay? Do you know anything they're not showing in the news?"

Before he's even awake enough to process this question, his phone beeps with another incoming call. "Hang on." He hits a button and there's another weeping woman on his phone.

"Vincent Chase, how could you not tell me!"

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Diane Murphy's voice is right there in his ear, heartbroken.

"God, Diane," he breathes, and Jesus Christ, he really hadn't thought he could feel worse.

"Vincent, please." Her voice breaks, and she starts to cry, and Vince suddenly can't breathe.

"Diane, I'm so sorry," he says, and he means it with everything in him. "I didn't want you to worry."

"Worry? I'm on the verge of a heart attack, Vincent! Just…please, is there anything you can tell me?"

"No," he whispers, because if he tries to speak any louder he may just cry too.

"Oh God, my Eric." She's crying even harder.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and he is. He's so fucking sorry he ever even _looked_ at the _Medellín_ script.

"I…I have to go. I'm going to come down there and – "

"Diane, don't. You're better off waiting there." And she is. If not for her then for Vince. If she comes to Colombia he won't be able to function. 

"You have to call me. You have to call me if anything happens. _Anything_."

"I will," he promises. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"I know," she says softly. "I love you, Vincent. You're like a second son to me and I-" Her voice breaks off in a sob, and Vince's chest aches.

"I have to go," he says softly. "I can call you back."

"Please," she implores.

"I will. I'll call you later."

"Take care," she says softly, and then she hangs up and suddenly he's on the line with Sloan.

"Vince?"

She's far more composed than she was when he put her on hold. For that he's extremely grateful.

"Hey, Sloan. Sorry about that."

"Vince, it's all over the news. What happened?"

He tells the shortest version of it he can. Then he hits her up for money. He feels like a complete sleaze, but he needs to find out about E more than he needs to like himself.

"Five million?" she repeats.

"If I weren't desperate," he says, swallowing down pride, "I would never, ever ask you. But Sloan, they're not even going to tell us if he's alive or not without it."

He can hear her take a deep breath over the line. She speaks on the exhale. "You know I will, Vince."

He could kiss her in that moment, a big wet one right on the lips, forgetting the fact that she doesn't date actors and he's not quite sure if she and E are still together or not. None of that matters, because he loves her then, purely and deeply.

"God, thank you," he laughs, from nothing more than unadulterated relief. "Thank you."

"Vince," she says in a voice that shoots him down from his momentary high, "this isn't to get them to let him go though, is it?"

"No."

"I…Vince, if you talk to him, if they let you, if he's not-" She stops herself from saying it. "You'll tell him I'm sorry, wont you? I just…I really need him to know that I'm sorry. For the way we left it."

Vince realizes with a sort of crystal clarity that Sloan thinks Eric is going to die, if he isn't dead already. It's in her voice. It's in her words. She's given up. She still cares, a lot, but she doesn't think Eric is going to come back from this.

"I will," he promises anyway.

He's making a lot of women promises today. He's never really done that before.

"I'd be careful going out today. I know there's some AP people where you are, I think, I don't know if they have video or not," she advises, turning back into something resembling the sensible woman she is normally, like Cinderella's pumpkin at midnight.

"Thank you, Sloan," he says. "For everything."

"The check should get to you by tomorrow. I'll get it there by courier."

"You're amazing," he tells her, and means it despite her doubt.

"Take care of yourself, Vince," she says softly. "Remember to eat, that sort of thing. You owe it to yourself."

He can't help but smile. She likes him as a person. She always has always. It's what's made her his favorite of E's girlfriends. "I will."

"Call if it's not there by tomorrow night."

"I will."

It all feels very final. Like something just ended, but he's not quite sure what.

"Ari Gold's office."

"Put him on, Lloyd."

"Oh my god, Vince. How are you?"

"Put. Him. On. The. Phone. Now," Vince growls, and Lloyd knows it's completely inappropriate to find that sexy, all things considered. But it is sexy, and mitigating circumstances or no, that's a fact.

Lloyd glances over at Ari, who is pacing his empty office like a caged tiger. "He's in a meeting."

"Goddamn it, Lloyd, tell him he can pick up the phone right fucking now or I'm going to get myself a new agent. Josh Weinstein's always looking for talent. "

Lloyd sighs. "Hold please."

"Yeah," Vince snaps. He's angry, and Lloyd can't blame him one tiny bit. If it were Tom in some Colombian hellhole? He'd be testy too.

No, that's not true. He wouldn't be testy. He'd be an out and out disaster. It's a bit of a miracle to Lloyd that Vince is together enough to be this angry.

He puts Vince on hold and buzzes Ari.

"Ari?"

"I told you not unless the building was on fire!" he bellows, unnecessarily, because Lloyd can hear him just fine through the intercom, thank you.

Lloyd rolls his eyes. At least his job isn't boring. "Ari, I have Vincent Chase on line one for you."

"Tell him I'm not here." He watches Ari pinch his nose. He's in so much trouble, and he knows it.

"I did. He didn't believe me."

"Well, tell him something else. It's your job to lie for me, Lloyd."

"You don't pay me well enough for me to do that to him right now," Lloyd drawls, which isn't entirely true. Ari pays him very well – for an assistant. But Eric is his favorite, and Vince is his second favorite, and the two of them together are cute as kittens and hot as Brad Pitt in _Troy_. And half of that combination, his favorite half in fact, is in very serious trouble, and, well, that trumps Ari's bluster.

"Lloyd!"

Lloyd crosses his arms. He knows Ari can see him do it. "Don't you shout at me, Ari Gold. You made your bed, now you have to sleep in it."

"Fucking cocksucker," Ari snaps.

Lloyd smiles because yes, yes he is. And damn good at it, too. Why just this morning, in fact. A "I'm so glad you're not the one being held hostage and possibly dead in the jungle" blowjob between boyfriends before work did a lot for his attitude.

"And?" he asks cheerfully, because today is not the day to play defense.

Ari grumbles under his breath. Today, Lloyd is unflappable. He steadfastly refuses to be flapped. 

"Should I put him through?"

"No."

"I'm putting him through."

"You're fired."

"No, I'm not."

"Motherfu-"

"What the fuck, Ari?" 

It's Vince's voice and, okay, he probably should turn off the feed at his end, but he's curious. If Ari has taught him anything it's that the way to get ahead in this town is to play for keeps. So he spins the microphone of his earpiece away from his mouth and settles in, his eyes locked on Ari.

"Vinny, my boy, how's it going?"

"It's day ten of 'where the fuck is my best friend?' How do you think it's going? It's going really fucking bad, same as always, only now there's fucking reporters here. How did reporters find out about this, Ari?"

He's angry. No, beyond angry. He's enraged, furious. And Ari has started pacing again.

"How the fuck should I know? Maybe they're listening on the police scanner. Those guys always have someone they're blowing in the LAPD office."

"Yeah. That would make sense. If this weren't a fucking international case. Jesus Christ, Ari, you do realize that this could get him killed, don't you?"

"Vince-"

"Fine. Try and tell me you didn't do this. And if you lie to me, so help me God, I'm gone. I'll go work with Terrance McQuewick, and I won't look back."

And Lloyd blinks in shock, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. For the first time, Vincent Chase sounds like an adult instead of a little boy playing the part of a man.

Ari heaves a heavy sigh. "All right, I may have called Shauna."

"Fuck! Ari!" Lloyd winces at his shouts. "Do you have any idea-"

Ari cuts him off. "Do you? You can't buy publicity like this, Vinny. Don't you get this? You have no fucking money. You're broke as the Clampets before they hit oil. This little project of yours? It has to work. Because you can't even afford to get his remains out of there if _Medellín_ tanks."

"He's not dead, Ari," Vince says softly.

Ari scratches his jaw. Lloyd can practically see the gears in his brain working; he's trying to figure out how to twist this, how to get what he wants and not get fired all at the same time.

"You know, I really hope he isn't. But it's been 10 days. You have to consider that maybe he is, and if he were what would he want." His tone is one Lloyd's has only heard him take with his children.

Vince's, on the other hand, is shaky and desperate. "I can't think about that. It doesn't matter. What does is getting him back, and I shouldn't have to do that with two dozen fucking cameras in my face, Ari."

Lloyd notices Ari scratch at that spot above his eyebrow. He always does that when he's about to lie and lie big. 

"I'm sorry if it upset you, Vince, but I did it for you. I thought that drawing attention to the situation would help. Get those letter writing campaigns started, all that." He makes a face that he would never make if Vince were in front of him. Like he just stepped in shit. Which of course he has.

"I'm this close to shutting down production all together." Vince sighs, the weight of worlds in his voice.

In the blink of an eye, Lloyd watches Ari slip from calm, cool, and collected into full blown panic. He's biting down on his mouse pad and throwing stuff off his desk and generally doing all the things Ari does when he's in the middle of a freak-out.

"Vince, Vince, let's not get hasty. You, me, and E poured blood, sweat, and tears into that movie."

"And look where it got us," Vince replies, in a tone that is just so heartbroken that if Lloyd ever doubted for a moment that he was in love with Eric, he doesn't anymore.

The tiny part of his brain that isn't following Ari's movements and the conversation raptly wonders if Vince has any idea how far gone he is. That small, hopelessly romantic spot ponders if, God willing this all ends well, he should try and invite Vince and Eric to go out with him and Tom. They could double.

"It got you on location, Vince. It got you to the fucking proverbial Mount Everest. Now you have to climb it. I know you're down one Sherpa guide right now but you gotta make the summit of that fucker anyway. You have to do it. It's right there."

Vince heaves a heavy sigh. Lloyd knows that right about there Eric would have pointed out that people died climbing Everest, if he were here. But he isn't. And no one is going to mention death again while Vince is on the line.

"I need you to call Shauna, and figure out a way to get these reporters out of here. The news is upsetting E's mom."

"I'll get on that."

"I mean it."

"If you get back to work, I'll make sure they're all on a plane back to the States by tomorrow night."

"All of them?"

"As many as I can," Ari amends, making it a promise he can probably keep. Lloyd has no doubt that he can feed the story perfectly well from L.A. "Vince, you can't afford to throw away your career right now. Neither can E."

There's a long moment were Ari visibly holds his breath and Lloyd holds it right along with him. It's the longest five seconds in the history of the universe.

"I want them gone, Ari."

Ari punches the air viciously, then runs a hand over his scalp. Not a hint of his relief is in his voice though. "Beautiful. I can do that. Just get that pretty face back to work."

"For the record, you and me? We're not okay."

"Fine. Go and pretend to be an infamous drug lord."

"Go to hell, Ari," Vince says before he hangs up. 

But he doesn't fire Ari. And he doesn't argue. All of which Lloyd counts as a win. Ari does, too; it's obvious in the way he collapses into his chair.

"That went well," Lloyd says, spinning his headpiece so the mic is closer to his mouth.

"Lloyd?"

"Yes."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing eavesdropping on me?"

"Learning." Then Lloyd rises from his seat, hangs up the phone, and walks into Ari's office. He makes sure the door is closed behind him. "Calling reporters was a really mean thing to do, Ari."

Ari isn't usually the kind of guy to explain himself. But Lloyd's talked to his wife. He loves Ari's wife. She's fantastic, but that's beside the point. The point is that thanks to one of his recent talks with her, he knows that Ari hasn't been sleeping well. He knows that despite everything, he cares, that he's just as worried about Eric as everyone else.

He knows that's probably why Ari actually gives him an answer to his not-question.

"They're almost two weeks behind schedule, Lloyd. I need people to know why. Besides, it looks good. The producer of a movie about a drug lord held captive and possibly killed by rebels with ties to drug lords? It's so wild that it gets the attention of everyone from the studio heads to the SUV driving soccer-moms."

Lloyd nods then says, "So you capitalized on the fact that Eric is still missing." It's stating the obvious, but he's been dying to know since he turned on the news this morning.

Ari rubs his face. "Yeah. I did. Terrance fucking called me about the check his little girl cut and sent first class to South America. If Vince gets his best friend back in a body bag, they're going to need all the publicity they can get. "

Lloyd studies Ari. He knows him better than anyone except maybe Ari's wife, and he knows that right now Ari is feeling uncharacteristically honest.

"Do you really think Eric's dead?"

Ari inhales loudly through his nose and scrubs his face. Then he looks Lloyd square in the eye. "I think it's been almost two weeks. By this point, Lacy Peterson had already started to float."

"Ari-"

Ari cuts him off. "I need you to get Shauna on the phone." He waves a hand. "Now." Lloyd nods and trots out of the office.

He pulls up Shauna's number and is five digits in when he hangs up. He shakes his head sadly and starts over. Same area code, but he dials Tom's cell phone instead. Lloyd needs to tell him that he loves him. Besides, he knows that Ari could use the extra five minutes to get himself together, even if Ari doesn't.

The phone call comes exactly two hours after the payment is delivered to the drop point as per the kidnapper's demands. Fuentes and Mason had people watching the site, a crowded corner on the main street in Bogotá, but they didn't see anyone pick it up. The ransom was just suddenly gone.

And then Vince's phone rang with a restricted caller ID.

Please, he prays, don't let this be instructions on where to pick up Eric's body. Please don't be that cruel. Please, please, please. "Hello?"

"Vince? Is that you?"

He would know that voice anywhere.

"E," he breathes. One syllable has never meant so much. Vince wants to cry. He wants to jump up and punch the sky. He wants do a hundred different things, but mostly he just wants Eric to keep talking. "E, are you okay?"

"I…yeah. Okay enough, I guess. The food is shit and the room service sucks."

Vince laughs, and there are suddenly tears streaming down his face. He doesn't fucking care that his boys and his fellow cast and crew members and the agents and the British guys, who he's let in mostly to spite the Associated Press reporters crawling around the set, are all looking at him. Eric is alive and he's being a smart ass and Vince's heart is going to explode right out of his chest he's so relieved.

"It's really good to hear your voice, man."

"Yours, too. Vince, I don't think they're going to let me have much time."

"Eric." He never uses his full name. "I am so fucking glad you're alive."

"That was fucked up of them," E says softly. "I'm sorry, Vince. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's all right, E. It'll be all right."

"I hope so," E says, ever the fucking pragmatist.

"It will be," Vince promises. "It'll be all right. We're going to get you home. We've got to. I mean, people know you're gone."

They know he's gone, but Fuentes hisses to him that they can't get a track on Eric. He's on one of those disposable cell phones, and they're lucky the line hasn't cut out yet. She gives him a look that says that she doesn't think he should make promises that cant be necessarily be kept.

"I…yeah. Okay. How's the movie going?"

"You're a fucking asshole," Vince laughs.

"You can't afford to stop, Vince," Eric says, and Vince realizes that Jesus Christ, he's really serious about this. "I want you to keep working on it."

"Fuck you, E. I thought you were dead."

"I know but-"

"No, goddamn it. No, you don't know. Fuck, E, I thought you were dead and it almost killed me."

There's silence. It's wasteful and Vince hates it. They don't have enough time for this. Who knows what the kidnappers are going to ask for next and they might never get another chance.

"Vince…"

He hangs his head, he doesn't want to be seen, even though he knows the Brits' boom mic can pick up his words. "I don't think I can make it without you, E."

"Yes, you can, Vince. You always could."

The way E says that makes Vince very, very scared. He thinks this must be what it felt like to get a phone call from someone on a plane that was going to crash.

"I don't want to. Don't be stupid and make me."

"I'm tryin'."

"Try harder."

E laughs a little. "I will."

Then Vince remembers. "Sloan says she's sorry. And your mom, she's worried about you."

"Jesus, tell them-"

He doesn't need to hear it. He knows what he's going to say. He just knows that E needs to know. "I will."

"Vince, I…" He sighs. "You know?"

And that's the thing. He does. He's known since he was six years old.

"Yeah. I know."

He's not even remotely ready for it when the line goes dead. It's like having a limb cut off to lose that connection. But E's voice is still ringing in his ears, and he can finally breathe again.


	2. On Location

**Authors Notes:** This story diverges from canon during 4x01 Welcome to the Jungle. I got inspired to write this at a Colombian rally in Rome over the summer and it's just taken me this long to write it.

**Pairing:**Eric/Vince

**Betas and helpers:** fourteencandles, guestage, Ashley, and Anne

**Summary:**The situation in Colombia is a work in progress.

- - - - -

"_What do you think of the current situation?"_

_"The current situation? You mean the Colombian clusterfuck masquerading as a film shoot? It's an un-fucking-believable disaster, is what it is. It's about as destructive as those fucking earthquakes in Afghanistan."_

_"Does that mean that you dont think the demands will be met?"_

_"Yeah, sure. Because the federal government is actually going to trade a guy who made Interpol's most wanted list for an Irish midget from Queens." Ari Gold snorts._

_He is sitting on the orange couch, his cell phone in one fist, a bottle of water in the other._

_"So you don't think the demands will be met?"_

_He glares at the camera like the person holding it is the stupidest person he's ever had the misfortune of encountering. "Not any time in the near future, no. Probably not before we get flying fucking cars. Things like this don't have any fucking quick fixes."_

_"Mr. Gold, what does this mean for the movie?"_

_Gold sighs and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "It means that we've got more publicity than we can shake a stick at, which is good. People are going to want to see this movie because of the drama. But we have a star who may or may not be able to function like a normal human being which is not good, no ending which is fucking worse, and a girl in the Hills who we owe five million dollars which is a goddamn catastrophe for so very many reasons."_

_"And no producer."_

_"Yes," Gold says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers from the hand that's clutching his cell. "And no fucking producer. Not that E knew his ass from a hole in the ground when it came to the finer points of producing, but the little bastard got things done. Vince's an actor. He's a brilliant actor but still, just an actor. He's not a management guy and right now he's essentially the acting producer." He takes a long drink of his water then sighs again. "I want to send someone else down there to do the job but Vince won't fucking listen to a goddamn thing I say. It's like trying to talk to my wife when she's on the rag."_

_"He's cross with you?"_

_Gold laughs. "Yeah. That's one way you could put it."_

_"How would you put it?"_

_Again he graces the camera with a "you are too stupid to live" look. Then his phone rings. He glances down at it then looks off to the left._

_"Lloyd!"_

"What's going on here, Vince?"

Vince shakes his head and rubs his eyes. Billy watches him, in full Escobar make up, and wonders if this fucking thing is gonna happen or not. Filming the kiss scene with Leli took twenty fucking takes and he's got a bad feeling that Vince isn't going to be able to finish this movie, even if he does get the goddamn ending written.

"I'm fine."

"The fuck you're fine."

"I just need to get into character. I can do this scene, I'm just…I need a second."

The scene's fucking brilliant. Billy knows this. It's the execution of one of Escobar's enemies, a former friend turned traitor who was now Escobar's hostage. The role of the prisoner is being played by a guy named Juan who is currently drumming his fingers on the wooden chair he's tied to.

Billy's left the cameras rolling even though he's standing in front of them with Vince. You never know when your actors are going to break through and he needs this scene.

Everything else about this is perfect - from the lighting to the camera angles to the amount of blood that's gonna splatter on the wall when Vince pulls the trigger on the gun. He's got everything right.

He just doesn't know if Vince can play the scene the way it has to be played with his head where it's at. He hates the fact that the suit could probably get this out of him.

"Vince, I can't cut this scene," Billy says.

"I know."

"If I could I would, but I'm not going to," He says frankly because honestly, Billy's sorry about what's happened. He is. But he's not going to sacrifice his film because of it if he doesn't have to. Besides, he's got a hunch that the suit wouldn't want that anyway.

Even so, Billy is digging way down deep for the control not to just get fucking pissed at Eric. Rationally, he's aware that it's not the suit's fault he got kidnapped. He's not the guy's biggest fan but he didn't want this to happen. He's knows it's not Eric's fault that his absence is throwing Vince off his game. Vince is the one who's codependent. But none of that changes the fact that he's got a vision for this fucking film and all this shit is ruining it.

"I know."

"This is pivotal. It shows us his passion, his rage. Every person he's killed so far's been clinical but this guy? This guy he fucking hates. Our sympathy needs to be for Escobar, not for this dick. We want to be rooting for him when looks this man in the eye and blows his fucking head off."

The brown contacts make Vince's eyes fucking huge in his face. "I _know_ Billy."

"Then you have gotta stop thinkin' of this guy," he waves at Juan who looks bored and frustrated, "as E."

The entire crew is watching them. The grips, the PAs, sound guys, and Drama and Turtle - who's been sitting in Eric's chair lately and trying his best to fill the big shoes left empty - are all staring in silence.

But right now? It's only the three of them. It's just Vince, Billy, and Juan.

Billy takes a few steps back, out of the line camera line. He pats Juan on the shoulder as he moves and Juan stiffens, getting back to work without needing to hear a word. The man is great with nonverbal cues which is one of the reasons why Billy cast him.

"I know he's not E," Vince says though he flinches like Billy's just hit him. And in away he has. But damn it, the guy needs a good smack.

"No, you fucking don't."

"Billy-"

"You see a fucking hostage!" He shouts in the dead silence, throwing his arms in the air in his outburst. "You see a hostage and your brain thinks 'he's just like my suit.' But he ain't, Vince. This cocksucker you've got in front of you? He's not a victim."

Vince licks his lips. And Billy knows, he can already see it. Vince will go where he needs him to if Billy can just push hard enough in the right direction.

"He's not some poor shmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time," Billy tells him, knowing that Juan is going to follow his lead.

They can do the dialogue later. What people are going to remember is the look in Vince's eyes when he delivers the kill.

"He's one of those guys who pulled a fucking submachine gun on your boy," Billy says sharply. "He's one of the sons of bitches who let you wonder for almost two weeks about whether or not they'd hacked up his body with a machete and used the pieces to fertilize the cocoa fields. A guy just like him's got E tied up in some fucking jungle basement. Right now."

The gun, a prop that's load with blanks, glints in the light as Vince's hand twitches. His face is twisted. Half of it's pain, which Billy knew would be there. The other half? That's pure, beautiful rage. And that's what he's been hoping for.

"Billy-" Drama starts but Billy glares at him. And he shuts right the fuck up.

"If Eric even breathes wrong, a guy just like him is going to blow him away without a single fucking thought. Doesn't that piss you off? Cause it makes me so fucking mad I see double, and I don't even like the guy."

Vince raises the gun and Billy is suddenly very glad that the suit made sure they only had blanks before the shit hit the fan because it's obvious that Vince isn't really with them anymore. He's not seeing Juan. And he's not seeing the character.

He's just seeing the kind of primal fury mother bears have when their cubs are attacked. And that's fucking gorgeous. He wants to bottle it.

Instead he just waves at his sound guy and glances at his camera guys. There's a dozen cameras trained on Vince from every angle and that's good 'cause they're only going to get one shot at this.

"Do you still see E, Vince?" Billy asks and that's as far as he can push. Vince snaps and he pulls the trigger without warning.

The entire set jumps at the sound, including Juan who does a brilliant job with the improv as Vince fires again. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. He unloads shot after shot with an expression on his face that is so visceral and sincere that Billy can barely stand it.

The squibs under Juan's clothes explode and he twitches and jerks with each crack until there was nothing but empty clicking. And then Vince is standing there, towering over the "bleeding" Juan, every inch the terrifying warlord. It's fucking glorious and it's the sort of scene that's going to last forever.

Then Billy yells cut and he watches as Vince sags, collapsing in on himself.

Billy can feel his face doing this weird twitching thing, the muscles trying to decide between smiling and frowning, because Vince hit that out of the fucking park but getting him there tore the kid into pieces. And he kind of feels bad for not feeling as bad as he probably should.

Drama pushes passed him, hitting him with some elbow and muttering "dick," as he moves to his brother. He doesn't hug him, Billy notices just swings an arm around Vince's shoulders and says that he's earned a few beers before leading him out of the room where they'd done the scene.

Turtle stays, after they wrap, after the clean up, after people leave to go get drunk at the bar or get leftovers from craft service. He stays until it's just the two of them. And wouldn't you know it, Turtle thinks he's turning into a little FUBU suit wannabe.

"What?" Billy asks, folding his arms defiantly.

"That was low," Turtle says simply. "You pull that shit again, we'll kill you."

"What? You and Johnny Drama?" Billy rolls his eyes. "Very scary. I'm shaking in my boots."

"I'm not kidding."

"This is art," Billy snaps. "It's fucking art. Art is life and life is pain."

"Yeah, I don't care. Drama doesn't care. And if Vince weren't anywhere close to okay he'd have knocked your fucking head off. The fuck're you think you're doing adding to the shit he's got to deal with?"

Billy refuses to apologize for what he's got on film. "He needed to go there."

Turtle snorts. "The fuck he did."

"Look, one day he'll thank me."

"Yeah. And right after that, E will break your fucking nose." Turtle replies, which expounds on the conditional, Billy only ever get thanks for what he pulled out of Vince if he gets E back.

"Were they fucking?" Billy asks suddenly beause he's wondered since the shit started to hit the fan but it's never really occurred to him to ask someone who'd know before.

"Probably not," Turtle says with a shrug. "Don't matter. They didn't need to be. You get me?"

Billy nods even though, no, he doesn't fucking get it. Not really. And he thinks that maybe he's better off not.

Eric didn't have it the easiest when he was growing up. Granted there were plenty of guys who had it worse, including Vince, but he didn't grow up in Manhattan or go to private school. His parents were always, always worried about money. He'd been more than ready to leave Queens when Vince finally talked him into coming out to LA.

But he'd give anything to be back in Queens compared to wherever he was in bumfuck Colombia.

He has a vague idea how long he's been there, how many days it's been since he spoke to Vince. They took his watch when he was first captured, out of greed not to torture he's pretty sure, so he's working with sunsets and irregular meals instead of hours and minutes in terms of time.

His cell is small, no more than ten by ten if that. There's a small window a good twenty feet up that gives Eric light. But there's no books to read and nothing to do with that daylight.

There's no bed either. There's just a dirt floor with a dark, deep hole in one corner. The only time they've let him out the entire time has been to make that call to Vince. And they kept guns trained on him every moment but they didn't offer him fresh clothes or a place to clean up and he's starting to stink like his cell.

By the end of the first month he's stopped noticing the smell.

The boredom's the worst. Sometimes he can hear people speaking in lightning quick Spanish outside his cell, but most of the time there's nothing but the sounds of bugs and rain.

So he exercises. There's enough room to do push ups and sit ups and what little yoga he can remember from those classes he took with Kristen before they broke up. He does them until he can't anymore, until he's run out of what little energy the food they've given him gives him. And then he sleeps until he wakes up again.

Into the second month, he starts writing in the dirt of the floor. First it's letters.

Dear Mom, I miss you. I've been thinking about it and I'm realizing that I was a brat as a kid and I'm trying to figure how you put up with me. Just so you know I wasn't upset about you getting rid of that stray cat I brought home when I was seven. Sorry for pitching a fit. I didn't know how tight things were back then. If I had, I wouldn't have brought home anything bigger than a hamster.

Dear Sloan, did you know that you're one of the only girls I've dated who I actually like as a person? That you're the only one I've ever wanted to be friends with after it was so obviously over? I miss us. Do you know how thankful I am to you for letting me call Vince? Yeah, I know you paid whatever it was they asked. I just don't think I'll ever be able to pay you back for that. Not really.

Hey Drama, if The Five Towns doesn't work out, I think you should try cooking professionally instead of acting. You're really good at that. The food here sucks and I miss your steaks.

So Turtle, what is it with you and shoes? You're worse than a girl with those fucking sneakers.

Vince -

He's never actually written one of those dirt letters to Vince. He's tried but every time he does start writing to Vince he realizes that what's going to come out is going to be something he doesn't want to have to deal with by himself in a filthy little room.

When he starts to do that he sort of lapses into conversations with Vince. He's not really talking to himself so much as he finds himself reliving conversations they've had in the past. Everything from stupid shit like stoned conversations about the nature of Smurf reproduction to more serious things like the argument they had back in high school about why Vince really, really shouldn't drop out or that night on the tarmac before they'd left for New York to film _Queens Boulevard_.

Only sometimes he finds himself having his half of those old chats out loud. And that might just mean that he's going stir crazy.

So he stops writing the letters. Except for the ones to his mom. Because those do more than stave off the boredom, they make him feel better.

Eric's not sure exactly when he starts writing screenplays instead. But he gets the idea all at once and suddenly he's adapting every book, TV show, urban legend, comic and video game he can think of into script format in the dirt with his index finger. When he runs out of room, he brushes away what he's done and starts from the top.

As he writes, he thinks about which role he'd cast Vince in, and it's not always the lead. He thinks about other actors and who they'd play.

It doesn't matter that what he's producing is not very good. It fills up the hours. It keeps his mind and hands busy and who gives a fuck if it's like a dorkier version of fantasy football. There's no one to judge and a guy can only do so many sit ups.

Vince is so damn glad when they finally wrap production. So glad in fact, that he polishes off an entire bottle of Cristal. All by himself. Sitting alone in his trailer.

He doesn't drink to excess very often. It's partly because his old man was psychotic drunk with a mean right hook but it's mostly because he doesn't really like the negative affects of booze. The fun part of drinking is the buzz, not the hangover and he doesn't really like being out of control.

But he goes for oblivion that night because goddamn it, E should have been here for this.

E's the one who got this started in the first place. He found the goddamn script. He read it. He gave it to Vince. He hunted down Paul Haggis when they hit the scheduling conflict. E chased it down after they lost _Aquaman_. He fought for it, against Amanda and every sense that told him they should have moved on ages ago. He put in everything he had because he wanted it just as badly as Vince did. Maybe more.

And now he's not here to see it get finished.

So yeah, Vince gets wasted. And maybe he cries a little. And could be that makes him a bitch but he stopped caring about that three months ago.

Three months. Three fucking months since he's seen E, more than two since they've talked. That's longer than he's ever gone without talking to E in his entire life since the day they met.

So he drinks and every mouthful is a toast to Eric Murphy, producer extraordinaire and the only person on the planet who Vince can't function without. Then he spends the wee hours vomiting into the Colombian dust that he is really not ready to leave.

But they are leaving, tomorrow, the three of them, without E. He's actually glad they don't have the house to go back to. He doesn't think he could have lived there without him.

It's still such a shock to his system that they're going to have to leave South America without E. It doesn't seem like it should be an option. But until the U.S. government decides to either let go of the FARC faction leader they have held on drug trafficking and murder charges or send in a team of Navy SEALs, he's not going to get E back. No matter how much money he has – which at the moment is very little.

So maybe he doesn't cry a little. Maybe he cries a lot. In his defense, by that point he's beyond drunk. That is why he definitely doesn't remember Johnny finding him and getting him back inside. Honestly. He doesn't remember it.

He's got the worst hangover of his life as they ride the bumpy road into Bogotá and his head and stomach are protesting as they board their plane. Though that might be less from the alcohol and more from the idea of leaving E in the jungle.

He doesn't think he can climb the stairs to the plane. But he does.

He doesn't freeze with a hand on the rail at the thought that this is it, once he's on the plane he's as good as abandoned E in this fucking third world country to die. He just sways on his feet a little.

"You all right, bro?" alright

"Yeah, man, you okay?"

He swallows and puts on the brave face for Turtle and Drama. It's the role he deserves the Oscar for – the role of a man who is doing fine.

"Yeah. Just hung over."

He sleeps through the flight. He dreams of the house, the first big one, the one where E lived in the guesthouse. The one with the indoor pool. He dreams he's floating on the surface of the water lit from below, that he's wet all over and he's still. In his dream, he can hear E talking to someone, maybe him maybe not, outside his line of sight. He wakes up when they touch down at LAX and his mouth is dry and there are crusted tears at the corners of his eyes.

Drama insists that he stay in the condo with him and Turtle. It's a nice thing for him to do and he knows the guys are worried about him but all Vince wants is some time to himself. He sends them on ahead and contemplates taking a cab to the Beverly Hills Hilton and just getting a suite. But a hand lands on his shoulder a moment before he reaches out to hail one.

"Vince?"

He turns and there she is, as gorgeous as she was the last time he saw her, which is hardly a surprise. Jessica is always beautiful. But she's smiling at him god, she looks so happy to see him.

He gives her his award-show smile. "Jessica. Hey."

She smiles back at him with the vibrant grin that's gotten her every role in every film she's ever been in. "I didn't know you were back in the country. I thought you were still in South America."

His throat tightens and he shrugs. "Just got back in town." He manages.

"Me too. We just finished shooting in New York," she says warmly and then her smile fades. "Um, I heard about Eric. Any word?"

He doesn't want to do this. Not here, outside the airport, where everyone, their brother and their brother's friend in the paparazzi can see him. And Jessica, thank god, must be able to tell because she takes him by the elbow and points at a long black limo.

"Would you like a ride?"

Of course he does. So he picks up his bag and follows her because Jessica is someone he can trust and he needs that. He doesn't realize they're at her house until he's sitting in her living room.

She presses a drink into his hand, a bottle of Evian, and then she sits down on the coffee table directly across from him. He feels really young which is stupid because he's older than Jessica but she's looking at him with eyes that are just way too understanding.

"You can stay here," she offers over the course of their little talk because they're friends, good friends, and have been ever since they did _Head On_. And he takes her up on it because he doesn't need to talk to Marvin to know how much money he doesn't have.

Then she leans forward and puts a hand on his face.

"E's going to be fine, Vince," she says.

Her thumb strokes his cheek and either she really means it or she's a much better actress then he's ever imagined. And then, oh God, she's in his lap giving him a full body hug that should have been incredibly sexy but is just the opposite. It's too fucking sad to be sexy.

She's warm and soft and holding him so tightly that for a few blessed moments, he doesn't have to worry about falling apart. Her arms are keeping the pieces together. He buries his face in her hair and just breathes her, listening to her whisper nothing to him as she rocks back and forth slightly.

Eventually she pulls back and kisses his brow. Then she rests her forehead against his and squeezes him tight. He squeezes back and is really glad that they never slept together, that he has one girl on Earth who is actually his friend.

"I know you're scared for him but it's okay," she says, running her hands soothingly through his curls. And he smiles at her even though it's anything but okay.

"Thanks Jess."

"You can stay here as long as you need. I'm spending most of my time in the house in Malibu anyway," she says. "All your bags are here and I'll leave you the spare key."

He realizes that she planned this before she ever "ran into him" outside the airport. He doesn't know how, exactly, she could have known, but he thinks that Lloyd or maybe even Ari had something to do with this. He wants to protest but he knows that it's pointless. She's stubborn when she wants to be.

He nods and keeps holding her until she finally has to go. But he can feel her in her house. It's been empty for a few weeks, clearly but it still feels lived in.

So he's living in a five million dollar mansion in the hills. The living situation is not what he thought it would be left LA seven months ago. But again then, nothing is what he'd thought it would be.


End file.
